


the month kimura nearly threw his phone into tokyo bay

by dictionarysays



Category: SMAP
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-23
Updated: 2012-09-23
Packaged: 2017-11-14 22:10:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/520026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dictionarysays/pseuds/dictionarysays
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He meant to follow through with his vaguely thought-out plan: Avoid Tsuyoshi Through Any and Every Means Possible.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the month kimura nearly threw his phone into tokyo bay

He wasn’t the first to hear the news, but as soon as he did, he meant to follow through with his vaguely thought-out plan: Avoid Tsuyoshi Through Any and Every Means Possible.

It’s not that he wanted to, far from it actually, but taking into account how serious Tsuyoshi was taking the temporary leave (never would he call it ‘suspension’ for that entailed a stopping of something and nothing nor no one could stop SMAP); it was the least he could do.  
  
Management coordinated a press-conference and all they were left with was the job of creating a personal statement. They had done so with considerable ease; Nakai even allowed Shingo to tag a haiku he had written at the end (everyone was worried he’d take it as hard as Tsuyoshi, if not harder). Of course, by the time their statement was released, it had been scrapped and re-written so many times by management, that nothing of their genuine sincerity and affinity for one another was left to salvage; it was all hard and stilted words read over and over again from the mouths of reporters (“In further news, SMAP has now released a statement to apologize for the trouble and worry caused to fans and that of several related parties.”).  
  
Kimura still couldn’t grasp how quickly and efficiently Johnny’s removed Tsuyoshi’s CMs and banned him from nearly every job he had at the time. The idea that they believed they could quite literally erase Tsuyoshi from existence was ridiculous and pissed him off (he reminded himself to never drink again with the cast after a day of shooting—they got an earful of how pissed he was, as well).  
  
He’d only admit it to himself, but he was entirely grateful for Mr. Brain and his full shooting schedule; there was barely a moment he  _couldn’t_  distract himself (save for the few bathroom breaks he allowed himself between shoots where he would find himself straddling the toilet seat, wringing his hands and trying to think of nothing in particular as opposed to the particular...  _person_ he would be thinking about if it weren’t for the AD who’d come rushing in (just in time before the fuzzy images materialized), concerned and asking if everything was all right because apparently he’d been in the stall for ten minutes now).  
  
Aside from those very brief moments, life went on, he continued shooting a drama and it wasn’t until the phone calls started coming in that he realized just exactly how  _hard_ this was going to be.  
  
The first week of Tsuyoshi’s leave had only ended a day or two ago (he promised himself he wouldn’t keep count and had been pretty successful so far), and there Kimura was, legs crossed while leaning casually on the couch in his unusually small dressing room (which relieved him, he really didn’t find it necessary to have a big room anyway, as long as there was a chair he was good; the couch was an added bonus he couldn’t find the energy to complain about). He came to the set earlier than the scheduled shooting time with the intent of memorizing his lines; he had two more pages to go.  
  
He was as comfortable as he would probably ever get this early in the morning, cradling a mug of steaming coffee between his legs, fully aware of the risk he was taking (but he was a pro, he’d done this every set he’d been on). He was now looking over a scene where his actions would speak far louder than his words (which also meant, less lines for him to memorize), as he managed to balance the script between his knees while sipping slowly at the coffee now in his hands.  
  
 _Bzztbzztbzzt. Bzztbzztbzzt._  
  
(He had this terrible habit of always leaving his phone on vibrate, which, strangely enough, always ended up sounding more annoying than its ringtone).  
  
“... who'd be calling?” Mumbling to himself, with a practised move, coffee in one hand, script still tucked among his limbs; he reached for his phone, scanning the caller ID.  
  
The name  _Tsuyoshi_  stared up at him. He glared back. He couldn’t stifle the long sigh he let loose or help the fact he was now grinding his teeth. Everything in his arm told him to put the phone down, but every other part of him was working against it and he couldn’t let go of the small, buzzing thing. He willed it to stop vibrating ( _stopcallingstopcallingstopcallingstopca—OI! STOP CALLING, DAMNIT!_ ) and it finally did, he never thought it would; his fingertips were trembling even after he returned the phone to the table.  
  
He spent the rest of the day eating bananas, shooting scenes, and taking a few necessary bathroom breaks (leaving his phone in the dressing room the whole time).  
  
  
At the end of the week, Kimura and Shingo somehow found the time to get together for a late dinner. Shingo asked first, rambling on about needing a break from being blind and swordfights. It’s not that he wasn’t having fun with  _Zatoichi_ , because Kimura knew he was, but he guessed, just maybe, Shingo was a little lonely too.  
  
They had decided on a small Italian place that was out of their way, but Kimura was in the mood for pasta and Shingo figured he could ask for a side of mayonnaise with the sausages he’d probably get with _out_  being looked strangely upon. They’d been here a couple of times already, so they knew from experience that the booth hidden in the corner and perfectly adjacent to the hallway leading to the bathrooms would be empty.  
  
Somehow, someway, Shingo managed to convince Kimura to have some wine with him (‘It’s  _really_ good. Did y’know that historically this stuff was put in squat bottles and held in a straw basket? I bet you didn’t! But now you do.’), so by the time their food came around, Kimura could claim he was partially full from  _Chianti_ and bread rolls slathered with butter (again, another thing Shingo had convinced him to do, why he still listened to the younger man, he’d never know).  
  
The first few minutes of their meal was relatively quiet; aside from the  _clink_ ing of their utensils on warm plates and Shingo’s repeated groans of satisfaction through his full mouth (‘ _orhmygawd_ thishis _so_ good. You should try one, no really, try one. Eeeh? You need the mayo! That’s what makes them soso  _gooood_.’), which earned him a smack on the back of his head.  
  
“Has Tsuyopon ever called you?” Kimura stared at Shingo when he asked this, taking note of how his brown eyes briefly lit up behind his dark fringe (Kimura hadn’t done anything to stop the laugh from a few weeks ago that erupted from his lips the day Shingo arrived (pouting and sighing) on the SMAPxSMAP set with his blonde hair gone and his natural black back).   
  
“Huh? Oh yeah, all the time—we talk every night, actually. We probably shouldn’t though, since, yanno, I’m on-location and all, but I can’t help it. Tsuyopon’s so lonely.” Shingo’s so easy about the whole thing; it nearly catches Kimura by surprise when Shingo forks one of the meatballs off his plate (he had been saving it for last) and pushes it sloppily in his mouth (but not before rolling it around in the small bowl of mayonnaise he had gotten on the side). Kimura doesn’t waste time in grimacing at the sight and murmuring a soft ‘baka’ (all Shingo could do was grin a grin that was made up of meat, mayonnaise, and love) before returning his gaze to his own plate.  
  
Kimura wasn’t surprised; everyone knew how close Shingo and Tsuyoshi were, but even still—something flared and expanded in the pit of his stomach at the thought of the two talking until the sun came back up. He couldn’t place it (or maybe he just didn’t want to), and he took this moment to guzzle down the wine at his side (somewhere between bread rolls and head smacks his glass had been refilled).  
  
“What ‘bout you, Kimura-kun? Have you talked to Tsuyopon yet?” Kimura doesn’t question the ‘-kun’, it’s Shingo; it could be anything from the wine to their friendship.  
  
Kimura shrugs, “He’s called a few times, but I don’t pick up—”  
  
“Why not?” the question is abrupt but Shingo’s not mad, merely curious, and Kimura knows Shingo is straightforward about these things. Kimura begins twirling strands of pasta onto his fork, whether he’s looking for a distraction or actually hungry, he’s not so sure.  
  
“If I picked up the phone, wouldn’t this whole thing be meaningless? The point is for him to think about his mistakes, right? And he’s not leaving the house either.” Kimura thinks, biting down on his completely covered fork as Shingo watches curiously, nodding a little to himself, tugging at the sleeve of his shirt. “The person Tsuyoshi should be talking to is Tsuyoshi, not me.” Everything is quiet after that, Kimura pretending to eat, Shingo mulling things over.

Shingo finally breaks the silence, slapping his big hands on the table with a  _bam_.  
  
“I get it.” Kimura raises an eyebrow at that. Shingo’s mouth suddenly breaks out into a huge bright smile, “You’re so cool! That takes a lot of courage,  _ne?_  I couldn’t do that, I mean, it’s not that we talk about anything special but I try to keep it normal. Even though Tsuyopon still finds the time to apologize as much as he can in one phone call. He’s so silly.” Shingo laughs it off but his affection tinkles at the edges.  
  
Kimura breathes out from his nose, a strange smile playing around his lips. He doesn’t think he’s being nearly as noble as Shingo thinks he is.

He grabs for Shingo’s wineglass now and takes a swig from that, smirking at the hands that try to stop him.  
  
Kimura spares a glance around the restaurant as Shingo chatters on about a fight scene he had a few days ago. Kimura’s listening with half of his face; the other half is taking in the low lights and red upholstery. There’s only a few other patrons, most of them old couples from the distance that appears to exist but when Kimura looks a little closer, the twined pinkies and irrevocably soft smiles tell of dates from long ago and leftover dinners past.  
  
Goro was the first to take him to this place, he loves his Italian food and he knows how Kimura feels about well-made pasta in meat sauce. The second time he came was with Goro again, but they brought along Nakai that time and had him in grateful awe by the time dessert was served. Through word of mouth (mostly Nakai’s), Tsuyoshi’s interest was up and it was the third time around that Kimura brought him here.  
  
Kimura remembers Tsuyoshi having a hard time choosing an entrée and instead of his mouth twisting out of annoyance like Kimura’s would, his brows furrowed into concentration and he’d keep shooting him an apologetic smile over the top of his menu. Kimura didn’t mind, how could he after a look like that? He ended up ordering a simple lasagne dish (‘I’m sorry... I did all that agonizing for nothing, ne?’), but the expression on his face after the first bite was anything but. Kimura was pleased and their dinner had ended smoothly (Tsuyoshi couldn’t resist dessert either).  
  
He distinctly remembers the delicate hand Tsuyoshi curved around his elbow (he was wearing a short-sleeve that night so he was aware of the underworked pads of Tsuyopon’s fingers and every fingernail that rubbed against the inside of his arm) as he urged (ultimately led) him into the first cab that pulled over. Kimura tried offering, even explained sharing the ride, but they were going opposite ways (thinking back on it, he almost wishes they weren’t), so Tsuyoshi smiled his tender smile as he eventually had to push Kimura into the backseat (Kimura was too shocked to laugh and Tsuyoshi could tell—his smile faded into a low chuckle that settled in Kimura’s stomach like he settled into the seat). Tsuyoshi waited until he told the driver his address and waved him off, promising to send a mail when he got his own cab (he shut the door on Kimura’s opposition, nearly dismembering his arm, and leaving him to sigh and swear to himself and the cab-driver who was fairly amused).   
  
“You even listening?” Shingo leans over and jabs at Kimura’s collarbone (it was sticking out from his unusual v-neck); Kimura mumbles an ‘oi’ and smacks it away. “I know you stopped listening minutes ago but I thought if I kept talking you’d eventually cut me off. But how about  _yooou_ _?_  How’s Mr. Brain going? Your hair’s longer than ever.” Kimura knows (mostly hopes) that Shingo can tell he’s grateful for the change in subject (in his heart of hearts he knows Shingo knows he has something on his mind, but Shingo lets it go).  
  
Shingo reaches and rubs the fine ends of Kimura’s hair between his index and thumb, Kimura smiles and smirks (in some way, at the same time), “It’s going good, everyone’s pretty nice, I do a lot of running around though. You’d like it. My sense of fashion is mildly strange in it.” Shingo gives Kimura a once over that says ‘I can tell’ and he returns it with a forced scowl half grin that says ‘shut up’.  
  
The rest of dinner goes on like this, Shingo takes the time to repeatedly poke and prod Kimura when he thinks he’s not listening. Kimura frowns and tries to act angry every time but the shadow of a laugh around his mouth doesn’t get by Shingo and he has him recite everything he’s said—just in case. Kimura goes along with it because he has nothing better to do (and Shingo has the admirable ease to bring up Tsuyoshi from time to time (‘Tsuyopon said something about that actually,’ ‘I don’t think I’d mind, Tsuyopon probably would though, ne?’) and it boggles Kimura’s mind and keeps him listening).  
  
“I got it—”  
  
“You do?” Kimura laughs through his nose at the surprise and rarely regulated eagerness written all over Shingo’s face when Kimura pays the bill.  
  
“Yeah. I didn’t listen, so I’ll pay.”  
  
“At  _all?_ ” Kimura shrugs, half of it in response to his question, half of it to get into his coat. “But you summarized everything I said!”  
  
“I've known you how long, Shingo? I’d know what you talked about if I was in Alaska.” Shingo makes a face (they both know it means nothing) and it’s nearly midnight when the two finally leave the restaurant; the night air is cool so Kimura stuffs his hands in his coat’s big pockets—Shingo goes out of his way to do a jig (‘I’ll be warmer than you in no time, Kimura- _kun!_ ’).  
  
Shingo wants to walk home but Kimura won’t have any of that (‘No one’s going to rape my tall ass.’), so he ends up walking with Shingo instead, (they live the same way anyway) and make their way across town—Shingo points out things and Kimura manoeuvres him around drunks by the sleeve of his jacket.  
  
“Kimura-kun,” Kimura hums, not looking Shingo’s way, but listening all the same. They start to cross the street, there are no cars. “Y’think things will go back to being the same? Once Tsuyopon’s back?” Shingo’s question is sincere and supported by a high-pitched cackle that streams out from a bar across the street, which makes it that much harder for Kimura to avoid his look, focusing in on the cracks in the pavement instead, his walk never missing a beat.  
  
“Probably not. Things changed after Goro’s, didn’t they?” Kimura feels Shingo’s nod more than he sees it. “Knowing us, we’ll come out of it stronger than ever though and for the better too.” Kimura can’t stop his arm that slings across Shingo’s shoulders, the movement so easy he smiles at a smiling-even-more Shingo. He tousles his hair good naturedly, murmuring, “Don’t worry, kid.”  
  
Shingo laughs, unabashed, “I’m not. You’re the one who is.” Kimura’s smile softens, he pinches Shingo’s arm but his stomach’s tight—because Shingo’s  _so right._  
  
  
Kimura is swamped with work (rehearsals early in the morning, shooting ‘til the moonlight filters into the studio, then sleep—everything seems to just repeat itself), but he still thinks about Tsuyoshi. He finds his thoughts wandering at the most inopportune times; halfway through a scene where he’s supposed to laugh out loud, in preparation for a meeting while he’s skimming through the itinerary; and the worst—right before bed, when he’s all but exhausted but his brain won’t stop whirring.  
  
It has nothing to do with the phone calls—those are now few and far between and he’s ( _nearly_ ) gotten used to the vibrating. His hands still clench and his heart speeds up, but he quickly distracts himself with a script or a colleague (‘aren’t you going to get that?’), enough that he stops feeling bad (kind of not really).  
  
His sheets are cool around his mostly naked skin (he’s never gotten the courage to slip out of his briefs—there’s something incredibly vulnerable about the whole thing), he flips his pillow over for the umpteenth time—he can’t stop. He grunts, rubbing his face tiredly (his palms are clammy) and stares up at the dark ceiling—Kimura hates that his eyes are adjusting to the blackness. His body is sore from the shooting earlier, he likes doing his own stunts but his brain just won’t shut the hell up.  
  
Every time he blinks, it’s not the ceiling he sees but an image, fuzzy, and from the past.

The last time he had seen Tsuyoshi was after a SMAPxSMAP shoot, the studio was still buzzing with energy and Tsuyoshi’s brow was soaked with sweat. He teased Tsuyoshi, you still sweat after all this time, and Tsuyoshi just laughed, mopping at his brow with a handkerchief Kimura knew had SMAP printed all over it. Tsuyoshi’s cheeks were pink and there was no way he could ignore the light in his eyes as Shingo pounced over, swatting at them both playfully, inviting them over to his for some games with friends before skipping out of there. Kimura remembers not getting where Shingo got all that enthusiasm from and Tsuyoshi was probably thinking the same if his happy-gentle smile had anything to say about it. The whole thing was brief, Kimura had a call and Tsuyoshi just waved him off genially, I’ll talk to you later, before wandering over to a Nakai who was quiet and on his own. Kimura couldn’t pull him away, he had a call, and that’s how things went.  
  
Then all of this happened and Kimura chose to believe that if only he hadn’t taken the call—none of this would’ve happened.  
  
Kimura scoffs in the darkness.  
  
The rest of the flashes are bright and quick, but he catches snippets of Tsuyoshi’s weakened grin, that sheepish face he’d make right before a scripted kiss (Nakai was always the domineering one), the curve of his shoulders when he’d run up ahead, that phase when his hair was longer than it should’ve been and it would sometimes stick to his neck because Kimura knew the feeling, the gentle squeeze of his hand in his own after an especially slow song—they were all brief but so vivid, Kimura’s body was rigid and his stomach was twisting for all it was worth; he had to swallow more than once to make sure none of this was real, that he was just  _thinking._  
  
“ _Fuck._ ” Kimura’s throat is dry but he doesn’t care, he rolls over needlessly, punching the pillow, grinding his teeth and just shaking from the bottom up.  
  
He wants sleep but he knows what he wants more (so he masturbates, frustrated and quick, losing it in just over a minute and completely spent—he finally falls asleep).  
  
The next day shooting is slow, but Kimura has a lot of breaks in between and devours two bentos without a second glance. The AD (the same one to coax him out of the washroom) is mildly concerned, is anything wrong? Kimura shrugs it off, lack of sleep, and he’s left alone—he plays with the chain attached to his pants. His phone suddenly vibrates and everything from last night comes back up, but he checks all the same, and it’s  _Shingo_ —his mouth relaxes and he picks the thing up.  
  
“Why are you calling so early?”  
  
“I’m bored and we’re changing locations, so I thought I’d check up on you.” Kimura laughs, rolling his eyes and crossing his legs. He can catch the rumble of tires from the other end. “Why’d  _you_ pick up?”  
  
“I’m on break; chances of me picking up are higher than usual.”  
  
“What you eating?”  
  
“Bento—“  
  
“Figured. You know Goro was over at Tsuyopon’s yesterday?” Kimura wants to smile, he really does, but the miniature frown gets there first. He pulls the phone closer to his ear.  
  
“He was? That’s... probably good, isn’t it.”  
  
“ _Mm._  He brought eel and everything! Tsuyopon sounded really glad, they didn’t do much he said, but the thought was really nice—just having someone around for a while was enough.” Kimura can hear Shingo’s smile and that makes his chest hurt because he’s not smiling when he  _knows_ he should be (Tsuyoshi’s happy, so why the hell isn’t he?).  
  
“That was very nice of Goro. I bet you’d do the same if you could, huh?”  
  
“Yeah. All this on-location stuff is tough and anyway, I mean, I talk to him so much it’s  _almost_ like I’m over at his.” The AD pops back in, gesturing towards his watch sheepishly, Kimura nods and starts to get up.  
  
“Ah.  _Well_ , looks like my break’s over, Shingo, I have to get going. Be good.”  
  
“When am I not? People think I’m great, yanno. But yeah, I’ll let you go, stay sexy.” Kimura laughs in a way that means he will and Shingo knows that.

Kimura is the first to hang up and for the first time in a long while, he brings his phone with him. Just in case.  
  
Some phone calls aren’t all that bad.  
  
  
Kimura hadn’t had a day off for nearly two weeks and the fatigue was starting to catch up to him (make-up made it their mission to eliminate any and all dark circles from his face, all Kimura wanted was a nap—they worked out a deal). Somehow, Shingo and him had fallen into a strange routine where they’d talk over the phone during their breaks (Nakai wasn’t a people person and Goro and him didn’t talk all that often when they were shooting something); it consisted of a lot of complaints about the weather on Shingo’s part and loud laughs on Kimura’s end. Kimura never asked, but Shingo still made it his duty to update him on Tsuyoshi and that was the only way he knew Tsuyoshi would be fine (that and the faith he had in the younger man). Shingo was eager about the month nearing its close, rehearsals were already set for the return of SMAPxSMAP and apparently Tsuyoshi was apologetic as ever. Kimura could believe that.  
  
“If I had broken the sword, okay, fine, but it wasn’t even my fault! You don’t think that’s right, right?” Kimura shakes his head, letting a chortle escape his lips as he sidesteps one of the staff, smiling in greeting and making his way to the catering table.  
  
“Just tell them you didn’t do it. You’d get away with murder, never mind a broken prop sword if you smiled that idol smile of yours.” Shingo laughs some, pulling away from the phone so as to talk to someone on the other end. Kimura doesn’t mind, he holds the phone with his shoulder now and starts to pick some pineapple from the fruit tray.  _Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeep_. Someone’s calling. “One sec’, Shingo, someone’s on the other line.” Shingo’s still talking to somebody else, so he gets the phone away from his ear and checks the I.D.  
  
 _Tsuyoshi_. Kimura’s cheeks puff up, he squeezes the half-eaten pineapple in his hand and he can’t hang up the call fast enough. In his panic he hangs up on Shingo too but he won’t mind, he was busy anyway—and now Kimura’s stomach is tied up in knots. He sighs at the destroyed pineapple in his left hand and cleans the mess with a napkin; the spaces between his fingers are all sticky.  
  
 _Stu_ pid Tsuyoshi. If Kimura wasn’t on set he’d probably be kicking a wall or pulling his hair out of pure fear. One of the two. He hates the toll this is taking on him, he’s doing this for Tsuyoshi’s sake, he swears. Tough love, that’s the name of the game and there’s no doubt in Kimura’s mind that Nakai’s doing the same (he knows the man more than well enough). Kimura hasn’t even had the  _heart_ to listen to Tsuyoshi’s messages; his voicemail is filled with them.  
  
Kimura stares down at the small stupid thing, seriously contemplating dropping it in the vat of miso soup on the table before he’s broken away from his thoughts by one of his cast mate’s hand on his shoulder and a friendly squeeze. 

The next week (the last week of Tsuyoshi’s leave), Kimura’s on-location and taking a powernap on a really grassy hill; the sky is ridiculously blue, the clouds look like something out of a gumball machine and he can’t help but notice Tokyo Bay is near. They’ve just finished their last shoot for the day and as the crew packs everything away, Kimura’s not in the mood to leave just yet.  
  
The buttons from the jacket he lies on dig into the back of his head so he shifts restlessly, sighing under his breath and staring up at the sky. He hums some tune the crew was playing on the radio, he thinks it might be a Johnny’s but he’s not exactly sure. Earlier, Shingo had called to say something silly like ‘how much do  _you_ miss Tsuyopon?’ and all Kimura  _could_  do was laugh it off and fake nonchalance.  
  
The problem is he can’t get it out of his head. Throughout the shoot, he wasn’t even thinking of his lines (thankfully after so many years on sets, they just start to come to him, it's muscle memory) but of how long Tsuyoshi probably worked out this morning and the sweat that would gather on his brow and settle between the folds of his stomach as he did crunches on his couch. He wasn’t sure at the time if he’d rather think about that or the phone calls waiting to be answered or even the messages waiting to be heard in his inbox. But now that he thinks about it, the phone calls are probably safer territory—a sweating Tsuyoshi isn’t something he’s ready to face just yet.  
  
He pulls out his phone from his pocket now, turning it in his hands; the sun hits it from behind with every spin and he tries to avoid the glare.  
  
“You’re not  _that_ scary... ” his murmur is for the phone alone and he even manages a tiny smirk, a faint laugh-breath escaping his mouth.

At the end of the day, Kimura knows he’s just as afraid as Tsuyoshi if not more—is he  _really_ doing this for his sake? The more time that’s passed, the less sure he is about the whole thing. He knows eventually he has to face the younger man and that’s not what worries him, what worries him are the first words that will come out of his mouth when he sees him. Logically then, if he doesn’t pick up the phone, he doesn’t have to worry about those first words either, does he?   
  
He’s a wimp and no one knows it better than him.  
  
Before he can regret it, Kimura gets into his voicemail, tries to overlook the happy swoop in the pit of his stomach ( _17 messages from Tsuyoshi_ ) and starts to listen—he can’t help but sit up for this, his heart is racing and his palms are suddenly cold.  
  
 _“Kimura... ? Um, hi... it’s me. Tsuyoshi. You must be busy with your drama, ne? That’s good. I’m sure it’ll be great, I mean, they usually are. Ano... I’m sorry—so sorry—_  
  
“Drama must be taking up most of your time... I know how you like keeping busy, like you always say, ‘If I’m not busy when will I ever catch a break?’ I think I'm starting to finally get it... I know if you were on the other end you’d just tsk but you’re not so, just, accept this for what it is. I can’t say sorry enough to any of you. I’m sorry for being so stupid, I—  
  
“I really should get the hint, shouldn’t I? Nakai’s doing the same, but, I can’t help but call anyways—that’s not too pathetic, is it? Probably is. Shingo says it is but it stings less when he says it. I made myself some sushi today. I was worried I wouldn’t have any seaweed, but I found some in the end. You’re not disappointed in me, are you? Shingo doubts it, but... I... I can’t be so sure. Forgiv—  
  
“Goro just left and I c-can’t stop crying... he brought eel. It... it’s never tasted so good—I miss you. All of you. Part of me... part of me is almost relieved you don’t pick up the phone. Ha... I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to disappoint any of you—especially you—  
  
“I’m sorry—  
  
“Shingo says this is just another step up the ladder of life and I agree, the only way I can make it up to you guys is by learning from my mistakes right... ? Letting life lead me—  
  
“Takuya... ? I... I need you to pick up... even though I know you won’t. I’m sorry. Not just for being selfish but for putting you through this. I don’t deserve to hear your voice anyway—  
  
He’s already up and stranded at the bottom of the hill by the twelfth message. The hand holding his phone is taut, knuckles splotchy and white—frustration, strain and misled love is written all over his face but mostly around the tired rims of his eyes. Kimura can’t stand it (later when the gaffer asks him what’s wrong, he’ll tell him he was practising for another scene—those weren’t real tears in his eyes).  
  
He wants to leave this part of Tokyo and sprint to Tsuyoshi’s place and hug him and never let him go when he opens the door. He wants to do that but he knows in his heart of hearts he never would. It’s not only illogical, but—he doesn’t have the guts.  
  
The back of his eyes hurt and he can’t stop his jaw muscle from tightening up. Tokyo Bay was gorgeous and blue just a few minutes ago but now all he sees are tears, eel and far too gentle smiles washing up at the dock, cresting beneath the hulls of boats. Kimura wants to find the heart to regret listening to the messages but the last time he heard Tsuyoshi's voice was on his iPod;  _Arigatou_ had come on shuffle and his heart had gotten all stuck in his throat as soon he heard his thin almost reedy singing voice.  
  
He’s never told him this, but he loves the way he holds his notes—like, if he lets go, there won’t be anything sincere or strong left.  
  
“You idiot... ” he tries to laugh off the past twenty minutes but his laugh is thick, even to him, and his eyelashes are suddenly damp. He starts to laugh a little more though, bursting in bits from his gut because Tsuyoshi really  _does_ apologize a lot, Shingo had told him about it, sure, but it’s not the same when he gets to hear it himself—they’re somehow genuine every time, despite the static of the phone and the surf of the bay.

Kimura smiles some at the thought; it’s irrevocably Tsuyoshi and as much as his heart hurts and as much as the clouds move over him, he can’t deny that.

Kimura eyes his phone; he fingers the creases and contemplates it for a moment. He looks out at the bay. What’s stopping him from just throwing it there? There’s plenty more where this stupid thing came from and he can just ask for the numbers again.  
  
Tsuyoshi wouldn’t be able to get a hold of him.  
  
His hold tightens around the small object. His pulse quickens. He leans forward, it’s a long way down—the phone wouldn’t make it. If the water didn’t kill it, the rocks would. His palms have been clammy for a while but he only realizes it now because the number pad is slippery.  
  
He outstretches his hand, loosening his hold; he wants to laugh out loud at the ridiculousness of the situation and tell Nakai he’s been so stupid, but the tears on his eyelashes stop him. The tears in the messages somehow made their way from his voicemail to the small tight ball that is now his stomach, churning and twisting like the sails beneath him (the wind’s picked up and his Mr. Brain hair is all over his face and that’s okay).

“ _God_... ” Kimura’s sob comes out of nowhere and the phone drops from his hand onto the grass—his hands are blocking his face like  _see no evil_ actually works.  
  
He just wants things to go back to normal, even if normal means Nakai and him will have to share a hard look before keeping a closer eye on Tsuyoshi, even if it means they can’t go back to the way things were because all Kimura wants is SMAP to stay SMAP—he can’t take another leave.  
  
The sun begins to come out from behind the fold of clouds up ahead and there’s no doubt in Kimura’s mind as he wipes his tears away from the side of his face.  
  
The rest of the week goes by without a fault (Kimura doesn’t cry, Shingo always calls, Nakai keeps his mind on other things, Goro eats a lot of late night dinners alone, and Tsuyoshi’s a nervous wreck).  
  
  
  
“Shingo if you don’t sit, I’ll  _make_ you sit.” Even Goro knows Nakai’s attempt at being grumpy is just a ruse for how excited he actually is to finally be back in the studio for SMAPxSMAP (but more importantly, he was coming back). Shingo’s all restless limbs and bright smiles as he paces back and forth; chortling at Nakai’s response. “You’re making me dizzy.” Kimura can’t help but knock Nakai’s shoulder with his own in a way that says ‘We’re back’.  
  
“Whatever, old man. I’m going to be the first thing Tsuyopon sees if I can help it.” Shingo’s so self-assured and easy about what he just said that Goro laughs, Nakai rolls his eyes and Kimura’s mouth falls into a lop-sided grin because he loves SMAP too much to take the hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach seriously.  
  
The next few minutes are more relaxed than Kimura thought it could ever be—it’s made up of Goro’s comforting words while his hand squeezes Kimura’s thigh, Shingo’s hyper beam smiles that could blind the sun and Nakai’s inexplicable urge to smoke when Kimura catches sight of the beads of diamonds between his lashes. All he does is watch them gently, not stifling the older-brother smile he knows he has on his face.  
  
His right hand is stuffed in his pocket, fiddling with his phone, thinking back on the bay and his stupid plan. Since then, he’s brought his phone onto the Mr. Brain set with him (still set to vibrate) and he found himself hesitating less when it shook. Sure, nine times out of ten it was Shingo, but he still liked the rebellious surge that had started to strum through his fingers when he’d answer the phone—  
  
“Hi... ” Kimura’s brain goes blank and the studio has never been so quiet.  _Tsuyoshi_.

He looks the same and that catches him off guard—he doesn’t know why he expected him to look any different.  
  
He’s dressed in sweat pants and a too-long-for-him tee that says TYRE LIKE COFFEE LOVE—his hair looks newly cut and Kimura notices how high his cheekbones are (he’s not wearing make-up and yet his face is clear and pale except for the bags under his eyes that he bets were the least of Tsuyoshi’s problems).  
  
Without missing a beat, Tsuyoshi’s bent forward and bowing so deep that the front of his shirt flaps open at the top to expose his delicate neck and the beginnings of his chest. Kimura wishes he wouldn’t look at that.  
  
“I’m so  _sorry. Please_  forgive me.” Tsuyopon stays bowed and his voice is deep and sincere and the only thing shaking is Kimura’s heart when the next second Shingo has his big long arms wrapped around Tsuyoshi’s tiny frame in such a way—Tsuyoshi nearly falls, whether it’s Shingo’s weight or out of pure relief, Kimura’s not sure.

“Tsuyo _pon!_  Enough with the apologies already—“  
  
“Shingo’s right. I mean, it’s not like you ran over a police officer or anything.” Kimura doesn’t know how he manages to say this and smirk. But he likes that Goro has the ability to blush out of shame as Nakai thumps the side of Kimura’s arm hard. Shingo’s squeezing the life out of Tsuyoshi, but there’s no room for complaint and the way Nakai’s rubbing at his eyes and the look on Goro’s face—Shingo may be squeezing out his life, but SMAP was pouring all their love in.  
  
“You’re the first one he’s seen, you can stop strangling him now.” Shingo looks as if he’s going to ignore Nakai (again) but Tsuyoshi’s head finally appears and his hair is all mussed and his eyes all red.  
  
“It’s okay. I’m all right.” Shingo cackles in victory and manages to pump a fist in the air while spinning Tsuyoshi around with his other arm. Nakai gets up with a huff and slinks over to the two; hitting the back of Shingo’s head and tugging Tsuyoshi out of his possessive grip. Kimura sees right through Nakai though and knows he wants in on the love and somehow through it all he doesn’t notice a sheepish Goro come up from behind and rest his forehead against Tsuyoshi’s ear. He doesn’t say a word but Tsuyopon’s mumbled  _‘thank you’_  says it all, as does Nakai trying to inconspicuously clear his throat as he plays with the bottom of Tsuyoshi’s shirt.  
  
As Kimura tries to gather up the courage to go over and tousle Tsuyoshi’s hair, touch his neck, _some_ thing—it’s in this very moment when Nakai is holding Tsuyoshi, Shingo is nestling him from behind and Goro’s murmuring the story about his visit and eel that proves just how married the two are; that Kimura realizes just how much of his life actually is SMAP (even with two beautiful girls, a wife, and a string of successes and failures) and he wouldn’t change a single thing for the world.  
  
  
He waits it out and finally Nakai is asked to do a read-through, Goro’s stylist wants to try something new (Goro balks but with enough of Shingo’s prods and Tsuyoshi’s little smiles, he concedes and leaves too), and Shingo’s tethered to Tsuyoshi’s side.  
  
Kimura gets up and is surprised he makes it over to his side because his tea-brown eyes are on him the whole time and he wishes he’d stop looking so scared.  
  
“Tsuyoshi.” Kimura's voice comes out lower, softer than he thought it would; but he couldn’t be anything else because his neck is tingling and the spot right behind his ear is probably red (he’s glad for his Mr. Brain hair). He knows he has to do something soon because if he doesn’t, what would he think? The unanswered phone calls were enough; tough love could only go so far—even if everything about this was tough and completely consistent with love.  
  
Kimura decides to stop thinking, just for once and reaches over, messing up Tsuyoshi’s short hair, it’s a little coarse but the tender upturn of Tsuyoshi’s lips and the peep of white teeth as Kimura grins so big his face might as well break—it’s totally worth it, all of this, even the knowing smirk drawn across Shingo’s face as he lets out a ‘whoo!’ and dances between them.  
  
“You're good.” Kimura wants to be able to say more (and touch Tsuyoshi more), say everything else he had been thinking about at night for three weeks and during the day when he was forced to laugh like an idiot on camera for a shoot, but if he lets the words bubble up past his lips, there’d be no turning back. He doesn’t need validation (he just wants Tsuyoshi to know).  
  
So he chucks Tsuyoshi’s sharp chin fondly, letting his knuckles graze the soft skin and stores the feeling (his stomach suddenly bloomed into caterpillars that were changing into butterflies) for another day.  
  
Kimura spares a glance in Shingo’s direction, he’s completely turned away, and the way Tsuyoshi’s nose crinkles and how his smile never falls lets Kimura know that maybe,  _just_ maybe, this could be all right. He leans in and touches Tsuyoshi’s mouth with his own for as long as he possibly can before he pulls back, ears burning, mouth tingling; Tsuyoshi’s cheeks so pink that Kimura knew if Shingo wasn’t looking between them (really lost) and if he wasn’t married with two kids and if for a couple of minutes none of this would exist—he’d kiss him again, he’d kiss him so he’d never have to say sorry again because Kimura's bad at it, but mostly, he’d kiss him again because he loves him for more than SMAP, he loves him for him and not being there for him was the hardest thing he had ever done.  
  
Kimura purses his lips, embarrassed, and tries to distract himself with the lock of black that's hanging from Tsuyoshi’s brow. Tsuyoshi, on the other hand, attempts to wriggle away from Shingo’s questioning stare (Shingo’s big hands are wrapped around Tsuyoshi’s arm, ‘you are blushing— _why?_ ’) but Kimura catches the  _smile-laugh_  that ghosts across his thin lips and he has no regrets.

(the next day, before the live they've barely rehearsed for, Kimura corners Tsuyoshi outside the noisy dressing room and captures him in a tight hug, the kind of hug where he hides his face into the shivering slope of Tsuyopon's neck and murmur-breathes three little words that stay strung between them—even when they perform an hour later and Kimura brushes the side of Tsuyoshi's neck with the back of his hand knowing he's really touching every single thing they've done).  
  
Kimura knows there's going to be times when there's too much cloud and not enough sun; but when Tsuyoshi’s knocking his knees against his own like that and Shingo’s asking ‘ _what_ did I just  _miss?!_ ’; all he can do is breathe, smack Shingo’s head and thank his lucky stars because he knows Goro will be back in a few and Nakai's just around the corner.


End file.
